Knowing
by Mary West
Summary: Molly Hooper thinks that no-one cares for her. But someone does.


**Christmas Day, 2010**

She left, hastily, unwilling to bear the scornful glances or embarrassed stares of the others. Her bag of presents forgotten, she rushed down the stairs of the dingy flat and out the front door, and it wasn't until she found herself ankle deep in grubby snow that she realised she had also forgotten her coat.

Winter in London can be bleak enough without the misery of the worst Christmas party ever. Molly Hooper paused at the railings, gasping in the frigid air and trying desperately not to cry. She shouldn't have tried. Not again. Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes had once more totally humiliated her without intending to, and then had rubbed it in with a kiss to the cheek that meant nothing to him and everything to her. She didn't know why she even bothered – except that she did. His mind, so cold, yet so brilliant, attracted her like a moth to the flame – and like the moth she crashed and burned, again and again and …

She heard the sound of the door opening behind her, and straightened up as best she could. If he had followed her, to offer some apology that he didn't mean, and probably because bloody Dr Watson had told him to …

"Molly." Her coat was placed gently over her shoulders.

She started.

"D. I... Greg." She turned, and faced the one person she had not expected to be there. "You … thank you." Pulling the coat around her shoulders, Molly Hooper prayed desperately that her mascara hadn't run, after all the effort she had put into applying it. "I couldn't..."

"I know." Greg Lestrade shrugged his own coat on, and drew out his gloves. Looking at her fingers slowly turning blue, he offered them to her with a smile that spoke of shared mortifications before the analysis of Sherlock Holmes. "He can be a right royal shit sometimes."

"All the time." Her voice was shaky, but her own smile was starting to break through. "I … really shouldn't bother." She drew on the gloves, glad of the warmth as the winter evening became full night and the snow began to fall.

"He doesn't deserve you." Greg gently brushed a stray lock of Molly's hair from her face, and tried to keep his eyes on hers rather than on the wonderful expanse of cleavage she was presenting. "Perhaps … would you like a hot drink somewhere? Away from here? I know a café that will be open, even today."

Molly nodded. "Help me with my coat?"

He held it for her as she slipped her arms in, then she turned to him as she tried to do up the buttons, her fingers hampered by his gloves. He was reminded of his own daughter, and he stepped forward and buttoned the coat up for her, then gently tipped his fingers underneath her chin and made her look at him.

For a moment they stood there, silently, the snow falling around them. Then she put her arms up around his neck and drew his face down to her.

The kiss started gently, tentatively, as uncertain kisses do between two people who are realising that the other is worth it. It took a minute before each reacted to the need in the other, and the kisses went from caring to passion to a steaming heat that might have gone anywhere if Greg had not pulled back suddenly, looking guilty.

"What... what?" Molly stood, dazed.

"I can't."

She couldn't believe it. Not again. Not twice in one night. Her voice managed to sound both hurt and hopeful. "Why not? Is it your wife? I don't care. Really."

"No." Greg looked at his feet, at the streetlight, at the snow – anywhere but at her. "No, it's not that. Truly. I … I would, except …"

From hurt and hopeful she had gone to full scorn. "Except what?"

Then he looked at her, the pain in his eyes echoing the growing one in her heart. "_He'd_ know."

"Oh."

And each looked sadly into the other's eyes, then simultaneously turned and walked away from the possibility and each other.

* * *

**June 20 2011**

He met her as she was leaving work, his heart leaping as he recognised her walk, her hair. He couldn't deny it – he'd been hoping for days to run across her, but the investigation and the paperwork had stopped him from coming to the funeral.

But here she was.

"Molly."

She looked up, her face pale with dark rings around her eyes. He knew she'd be affected but he didn't think it would have been this bad.

"Oh. Greg. Hi." She nodded to him but continued walking across the courtyard. A moment later, she realised that he had turned to walk with her.

"You look terrible."

"Wow. Thanks. Are you taking over the position of not-so-subtle insulter?" She glared at him, and he was taken aback at the venom in her voice.

"I … I meant … I'm worried about you. Really." He looked into her eyes, and she shook her head.

"I apologise. You didn't deserve that. I haven't slept much lately, and between the press and your colleagues... "

"Overeager?"

"Over something." Molly smiled, for the first time in a week. "If I really look that terrible, I should probably go home and get some food. And sleep." She passed her hand in front of her eyes, and it was only Greg's fast reflexes that stopped her from collapsing on the ground a moment later. He wrapped his arms around her, and she sagged against his chest.

"Molly? When was the last time you ate?"

She didn't answer, and he half-carried half-walked her around the corner to a dingy café, and slid her into a booth. Signalling to the waiter for some soup, he grabbed a glass of water from a nearby tray and put it in Molly's hands, holding them with his own until she had control of it.

She drank, slowly at first then eagerly. By the time the waiter had brought a bowl of soup and a bread roll, Molly had come back to her senses and was trying not to be too embarrassed.

"You must think me a terrible fool." She could not meet his eyes, and concentrated instead on spooning up some of the soup.

"I think of you as an intelligent woman who has had a terrible week and a shocking loss." Greg slid into the booth beside her, and signalled unsuccessfully for a cup of coffee. "You've lost someone who means a great deal to you, for all that he didn't appreciate you. You've been overworking, trying to forget about him. It doesn't take his observation skills to work that out. And if you look too closely at me, you'll see I'm in much the same state. I just hope John is going to be all right."

"He has Mrs Hudson to look after him." Molly's colour had started to come back, and she finished the last couple of mouthfuls of soup, then laid the spoon down. "But what about you? I heard you'd practically moved into your office since your marriage br... sorry. None of my business."

"I have a bedsit up in Golder's Green. Not very swish, but it does the job. When I'm there." Greg slid his hand over hers, and held it. "And I don't mind you knowing, you being a friend and all. But I'm more worried about you at the moment. I'm going to see you home, make sure you're safe, and if necessary order you to get a decent night's sleep."

It was a sign of her distress and exhaustion that she didn't react to the possibilities in that. Instead, she squeezed his hand, then picked up her handbag and slid out of the booth. As she walked unsteadily out of the café, Greg left a note on the counter to cover the soup and hurried after her, catching up with her on the corner. With a passion he had not known he felt, he caught her arm, spinning her around and into his arms. Molly's hands came up around his neck, and for ten glorious seconds they kissed long and hard, before she suddenly pulled free of him and backed away.

He looked imploringly at her, and she looked miserably at him.

"No, Greg. I can't."

"What? Why not?"

Molly just shook her head, then turned and walked away towards the Tube station, as Greg stood watching her in disbelief.

And if he had been able to see her face, he would have seen the tears streaming down as she mouthed two words.

"_He'd_ know."


End file.
